aration of that happy meeting, Tournier could not but observe how
feeble she was in every way. And when the first gush of joy was over, he
saw it more plainly; and every day he noticed it increasingly. Where
some stamina is left, a sudden stimulus may lead to permanent
improvement, but when there is none, excitement only revives for the
moment, and leaves the patient weaker than ever. So was it with the dear
old lady. Those years of lonely sorrow, aggravated by uncertainty and
bitter disappointment, had killed her; and Tournier had only come in time
to make the last few months of her life her happiest ones for many a day
past.

One evening, as the end was drawing near, she suddenly said, "My son,
what will you do when I am gone?"

"Sweet mother," was his reply, "I shall trust in God to help me bear my
sorrow patiently. I know He will."

"Why not marry a wife? It is God's own remedy for man's loneliness."

"Where shall I find one? I know no woman that I could trust _now_."
Then, after a pause, he added, "And yet there is one I could trust. Yes,
those blue eyes could be trusted. I would spurn the man who dared to say
they could not."

Then he told his mother all about Alice; and she listened with deepest
interest, and a little flush came over her delicate pale face. But it
became pale as before when he said, "Ah! mother mine, Alice Cosin is not
for me, nor for anyone: she is bound for life to her good brother, and I
would not break that lovely bond even if I could."

In the autumn of 1815 she died, her eyes fixed to the last on her son.
And when they closed for ever, it seemed to him that love unutterable was
extinguished. But he took refuge in his God.

It was hard work, however, to keep on living in the old place where
everything reminded him so much of the past, both of joy and pain. He
would have asked his friend, Villemet, to take compassion on his
loneliness, and come and stay with him awhile; but the irrepressible
fellow had gone off to the wars some time ago, and joined the army of
Napoleon, distinguishing himself greatly at Waterloo. Again and again
had Tournier's thoughts reverted to Alice Cosin, but each time he had
repelled the pleasing idea as an impossibility. "How could I," he
repeated, as the fair vision floated away, "for my selfish ends spoil the
happiness of a friend like him?"

Fortified by this resolution, he determined at length to find consolation
in fulfilling his promise of